


Not an Average (Cup of) Joe

by Kacka



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 13:23:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6286366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kacka/pseuds/Kacka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke finds a new favorite spot in town, complete with a cute shop owner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not an Average (Cup of) Joe

**Author's Note:**

> This is technically not a coffeeshop AU. It is, however, one of my favorite things I've written recently. I hope you enjoy!

The first time Clarke stumbles into Steep & Steam, it’s an accident. She’s coming off a fifteen-hour shift. She doesn’t think she can be held accountable for her actions, especially when she sees a shop with a mug in the logo and mismatched plush armchairs inside. The whole effect comes off less like an intentional aesthetic and more like somebody just snatched up any and all reasonably comfortable furniture they found at yard sales. It’s endearing and she follows that instinct, as well as the faint promise of caffeination, through the door and straight to the counter.

There are a few people conversing quietly in the corner and one employee standing behind the counter, but the shop is otherwise empty. The guy working has freckles and glasses, and is wearing a black t-shirt that simply says ‘BLACK’ across it, which she figures is some kind of statement even though he’s probably not advertising his own race. He’s also incredibly attractive. She can feel his eyes on her as her bleary gaze moves from the word emblazoned across his chest to the chalkboard menu, and after a respectful waiting period, he speaks up.

“Can I help you with something?”

“Probably,” she sighs. “None of the words on your menu are making any sense to me and I’m not sure if I’m exhausted or just not hipster enough. Do you have espresso, by any chance?”

“Uh, no. Sorry.”

“Alright,” she sighs. “Latte? Cappuccino? Black coffee? I’m desperate.”

“You’re also kind of in the wrong place,” he says, his lips pursing in amusement. “We don’t sell anything like that here. But if you’re looking for something to wake you up, I have a few recommendations.”

Clarke blinks at him in confusion, then shrugs.

“I’m too tired to go somewhere else and get a normal drink. Just give me something strong?”

“You got it,” he grins, pushing his glasses further up his face like he’s facing the ultimate challenge. Clarke loiters by the counter as he works, still puzzling over the problem.

“What kind of coffee shop doesn’t sell coffee?” She muses aloud.

“Is this a riddle?”

“No, it’s a question.”

“Ah. The kind that’s not a coffee shop. We’re a tea shop. We sell tea.”

 _Oh._ Clarke had heard, from Wells or Monty or someone, that there was a new tea shop going in downtown, but she hadn’t realized it was open yet. Or that she was inside of it. She takes another look around her, and sure enough, there’s nothing but tea as far as the eye can see. Glass canisters filled with tea leaves, an entire wall of shelves with different boxes and tins of teas, different brewing mechanisms for sale, even an earthy scent in the air that’s distinctly not coffee-like.

“That makes a lot of sense,” she says, and the guy laughs. It’s soft and low, like bubbling water, and it makes Clarke want to smile, too.

“You don’t have to stand by the counter while you wait, you know.”

“I’m afraid once I sit, I won’t be able to get up again,” she admits.

“I’ll bring it out to you. It’s pretty slow right now.”

She picks a wingback chair with a floral pattern and an honest-to-god afghan draped over one arm, curling up with her feet tucked under her and the blanket pulled across her lap. There’s a round, wooden table next to her chair with several antique books stacked atop it, and Clarke flips aimlessly through one in a vain effort to keep her eyes open.

“Here you go,” the cute barista says, sliding an oversized teacup on a comically tiny saucer onto the table. He casts a look around the shop and seems to come to a decision, taking a seat on the footstool in front of her so he can watch her expectantly.

The first sip is magical. The second is even better. Clarke has no idea what’s in it, but it’s warm and has a nostalgic feel to it. It’s wonderful.

“Well?” He prompts. She clutches the cup tighter and nestles back into the chair.

“It’s perfect,” she says, and his whole being lights up. “It’s exactly what I needed.”

“Good. You should spread the word. Tea is making a comeback.”

“I wasn’t aware it had gone anywhere.”

“Coffee is trendy in America right now. As are coffee shops. But tea has a long and illustrious history. Chinese agriculture gods, German apothecaries, Portuguese priests, aboriginal Australians–”

“A little pre-revolutionary event in Boston,” Clarke interjects, and he grins.

“That too. It’s not as ‘in’ right now as coffee is, but it’s lasted millennia. Its time is coming again.”

“Well, you’ve got me convinced,” she says, still marveling over how much more alert she feels after just a few sips. “Do all the– what do I even call you? Are you still a barista if you don’t serve coffee?”

“My sister calls it a tea-rista. Our other coworker, Miller, refuses to say that on principle. He’s trying to make ‘brewmaster’ a thing, but we haven’t settled on anything yet.”

“I’m with Miller. Tea-rista is a bit much. So do all the people who work here have to go through an orientation on the history of tea or is it a hobby of yours?”

“I tried to make it a mandatory part of job training, but Octavia– my sister– didn’t go for it. Besides, it’s just the three of us. I run the place and O does the finances and Miller works the brewing station when I have other shit to do. It’s not like I wasn’t gonna hire them if they didn’t know about tea, and they’ve both been around me too long to take me seriously about tea history.”

“I get the feeling they know plenty about the history of tea if they’ve spent any amount of time with you. I don’t even know your name and I’ve already learned so much.”

“It’s Bellamy,” he says, smiling and adjusting his glasses where they’ve gone crooked. “Glad to enlighten you.”

Visiting the tea shop becomes a part of Clarke's routine, ducking in before a shift at the ER to pick something up to go, or after, when she needs to decompress. Bellamy is usually working, always in a confusing color-themed t-shirt, and he’ll ask her vague and seemingly non-tea-related questions rather than letting her order, but it’s always incredible so she lets him.

One day she wanders in with Monty in tow, only slightly disappointed to find a darker guy with a beard behind the counter instead of Bellamy. Despite the jade t-shirt he has on that exclaims ‘GREEN’ across the front, he has an air of cool about him that Bellamy doesn’t always manage to pull off.

“You must be Miller,” she says, not missing the way his eyes linger on Monty before landing on Clarke. When they do, he smirks.

“And you must be Clarke. Bellamy told us we had a regular, but I didn’t really believe him. He isn’t always the best at first impressions.”

“He basically gave me a tea-centric history lesson.”

“I can’t believe that worked.” His eyes flicker back to Monty. “You even brought us more business.”

“Oh, right. This is my friend Monty. Monty, this is Miller.”

“Call me Nate,” he says, giving Monty a killer grin and holding out his hand. Clarke thinks Monty’s cheeks are a little pink, but he gives Nate a small smile and shakes his hand.

“Cool shirt,” he says. “Know where I can get one?”

“For real?” Nate says, looking down at his chest in confusion. “We have them here. You’d be the first to buy one. Bellamy insisted they’d sell, but I didn’t think anyone would be interested.”

“My last name is Green,” Monty offers. “It would be pretty meta.”

“That makes more sense,” Nate nods. Like he’s glad Monty is going to wear the shirt ironically. “They aren’t priced yet, but I’ll text Bellamy and ask him what he wants to charge. What else can I get you guys?”

“Bellamy usually just picks something for me, but–”

“Yeah, I’m gonna make you order,” Nate snorts.

“Then I’ll defer to my tea expert,” she says, turning to Monty. “Get me something you think I’d like. I’m gonna go get us a seat.”

“We do have lots of competition for a table,” Monty says, looking around at the half-empty room. Clarke revels in Nate’s delight at Monty’s dry sense of humor and shrugs before turning to leave them alone.

Monty is still flirting with Nate while he works on their order when the bell over the shop door jingles and Bellamy comes in with a beautiful brunette woman trailing him. Miller nods at him and then casts his eyes to where Clarke is sitting. Bellamy beams at her and changes course. His face is so pretty it takes a second for his shirt to register. It’s pale yellow, with ‘CHAMOMILE’ stamped across the front, and when it hits her, she wants to groan aloud.

“What?” He asks, noting the quick shift in her expression.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I literally haven’t said anything yet.”

“ _Tea_ shirts,” she whispers, pinching the bridge of her nose in consternation. “You guys are wearing tea shirts.”

“I told you people would get it,” he gloats to the woman, who rolls her eyes.

“That’s not why I thought it was terrible,” she says. “Clarke, right?”

“That’s me. I assume you’re Octavia?”

“What gave it away?”

“The long-suffering tone. I don’t have a brother, but I have something close, and it’s definitely familiar.”

“You think I’d be used to it by now,” Octavia says. Bellamy slings his arm around her, easy affection, and it’s obvious how close they are.

“I just don’t think you understand the scope of pun possibilities that come with running a tea shop,” he argues good-naturedly. “They can be pretty tea-riffic.”

Clarke boos and Octavia pushes him off in mock disgust.

“Get away from me with that. I have to go talk to a supplier anyway. See you around, Clarke.”

Clarke waves at her as she disappears through a curtain into the employee-only area and Bellamy takes the seat Clarke had been reserving for Monty. She was a great wingman for her friend; she doesn’t think he’ll mind.

“Promise me you’ll never say anything like that to me again.”

“I can’t, in good conscience, make you that promise. But I can comp your drink.”

“I think that’s only fair. I’m starting to think you went into this business for the punning opportunities.”

“Call it a fringe benefit. I went into it for the illustrious history, remember?”

“Really?”

“Nah. It’s something I got into in college. I can be a little– When I really believe something is great I can get a little zealous about it. I basically learned all I could and then forced my friends to start drinking the stuff I was experimenting with, until one day Miller mentioned that someone, somewhere, might actually pay me to put my extensive knowledge of tea to good use, and–” He gestures to the shop around them. “Here we are.”

“That’s–” She trails off, not quite having the words. She’s always had her MD as a distant finish line, a goal to be reached, a purpose to drive her. She envies him his ability to roll with his interests and make a niche for himself.

“I’ve had lots of suggestions,” he says kindly, filling in where she leaves off. “Octavia called it risky, which is why she insisted on helping me out with the money stuff. Miller called me a dumbass, but that’s his way of showing affection. And I’m employing him part-time, so he’s obviously not that against it. My advisor told me it was a waste of a college education.”

“I think it’s brave." He ducks his head, then has to push his glasses back up.

“Thanks. If nothing else, it’s fun. And I don’t think I’m totally screwing it up yet, so that’s a plus.”

Monty wanders over, a steaming teacup in his hands that he places in front of Clarke.

“Where’s yours?” She asks, taking the cup and blowing on it. Bellamy frowns at this; he’s boasted before about his ability to perfectly time the brew so that it’s hot but not scalding. Clarke hides her smile, wondering if Miller is going to get a demonstration later on.

“Nate is letting me taste-test some things,” Monty shrugs. “It’s just as well. Looks like my seat is taken anyway.” He raises his eyebrows pointedly at Clarke and strolls back to the counter, where Miller is indeed setting out what look like shot glasses full of tea.

They hang out until the end of Miller’s shift, Bellamy detailing for Clarke the haggling he had to do with an elderly woman to get the chair she’s sitting in, and how he’d finally ended up agreeing to go on a date with her granddaughter (who later called to let him off the hook) to seal the deal. She and Monty walk out with Miller– or rather, Nate– when he’s finished, and he gives them a little wave as they drive off.

“I see why you like that place so much.”

“We both know what you liked about it,” Clarke teases.

“Like you don’t go fifty percent for the cute baristas. Besides,” Monty says, his face contorting in the closest thing to a smirk she’s ever seen him wear, “I actually got Nate’s number. And a date later this week. Well, sort of. We’re going to have a Daredevil marathon, but still, Netflix and chill is at least one step beyond where you are with Bellamy.”

“Don’t worry. I’m working on it.”

The next time she goes in, Bellamy is behind the counter once again, wearing a shirt Clarke can only describe as a burnt orange, bearing ‘ROOIBOS’ in bold letters.

“That is not a real word.”

“It is, though. It’s a tea from South Africa. I made it for you last week.”

“Did you get them specially made?”

“It’s an investment,” he protests. “They self-advertise and they’ll bring people to the shop. Win-win. I even–” he pauses, reaching under the counter and coming up with a light green bundle of fabric. “I even picked this one out for you.”

She unfolds it, relieved that it’s not the same color as the one he’s wearing. It reads ‘MINT’ across the front, and is one of the better options she’s seen so far.

“This is for me?”

“Yeah, well. I wanted to show appreciation to our regulars, but you’re the only one so far. I had Octavia guess on the size, so if it’s not right, let me know and I’ll switch it out.”

“I definitely will.” Her eyes fall to the name tag he’s started wearing. Underneath it is a little ribbon that she has to squint to read. He turns, trying to figure out where she’s looking, and she smiles. “Apparently I’m supposed to ask you about your oolong. Is that some kind of euphemism? Because that doesn’t seem like the kind of thing you should advertise on your uniform.”

“No,” he laughs. Just like the first day, it brings a smile to Clarke’s face. “It’s a kind of tea. We’re trying different promotions to get more foot traffic, so the oolong is on sale and then when people brew it, we’re giving them a hashtag to use for Instagram.” He rubs the back of his neck. “It was Octavia’s idea. I’m not that well-versed on social media.”

“I see. I don’t actually have any way to make tea at home, but if you brew me some now, I’ll post something about it.”

Bellamy shakes his head but reaches for some leaves.

“That’s our next goal: to get you set up so you can brew it yourself.”

“You’re welcome to bring me a kettle anytime, but then I wouldn’t have any reason to come here,” she says, even though it’s not true. As much as she’s grown to like tea, the beverages aren’t what keeps her coming back.

“We can’t have that,” he says softly.

A few nights later there’s a knock on her door. She’s surprised to see Bellamy standing there, even more surprised to see him wearing a flannel over a plain gray shirt, completely pun-free.

“Um. Hi?” She says awkwardly, and he laughs.

“Sorry for the ambush. I didn’t have any way to contact you directly, so I had to ask Monty when and where to bring this.” He holds up a bag with the tea shop’s logo on it, contents unknown.

“Sure. Come on in.” He walks past her like he’s been there a million times, heading straight for the kitchen. “Monty and I are gonna have to have a talk about giving my address out to anyone who asks for it.”

“Miller told me I was being creepy,” Bellamy says, cheerful as he unpacks the bag. “But you did say I could bring you a kettle anytime, so I figured I was either taking you up on your offer or calling your bluff.” He grows serious. “For real, though, if I’m crossing a line, just tell me to go and I’ll leave. You can even keep the equipment.”

“You can’t leave yet,” Clarke says, coming over to inspect the goods. “You’ve gotta show me how to use all of these things you brought me. On a related note, I’m not opposed to getting free stuff but it seems like a bad business model.”

“I’m hoping it will pay off in a different way,” he says, smiling at her in a way that makes her mind go blank. “Now. Open that box and fill this part with water.”

She does as he instructs. It’s companionable, sharing the kitchen with Bellamy as he shows her what to do. She could have figured it out on her own, but she likes listening to him talk, likes the way he smells of spices as his arm presses against hers, likes to laugh at the way his glasses fog up in the steam.

“You did alright for your first time,” he says, drinking out of one of the mugs she made in a pottery class in college. It’s slightly misshapen but Clarke likes it in its imperfections.

“You literally walked me through it step by step,” she teases. “If it’s not perfect, that’s your own fault.”

“I can’t give away all my secrets,” he protests. “Then you’d stop coming by, which would suck. For the tea shop. We can’t lose our best customer.”

“You know, you don’t have to keep coming up with tea-related excuses to see me. You can just tell me you want to hang out and I promise I’ll be interested.”

“Yeah?” He asks, pleased, and there’s something so captivating about his face when he smiles. Clarke wants to make him do it as much as possible. “Cool. Maybe I’ll try that sometime.”

The next time Clarke shows up at Steep & Steam, Miller is the one working and he huffs when he sees her come through the door.

“I’m glad he didn’t run you off.”

“Were you worried?”

“Honestly? A little bit. I tried to tell him it’s stalkerish to just show up at someone’s place uninvited, but Monty told him it would be okay, so he didn’t listen to me.”

“To be fair,” Bellamy says, emerging from the back in a magenta ‘HIBISCUS’ shirt, “I was sort of invited, Monty was validating what I already wanted to do, and you give me crap about everything, so it’s hard to tell sometimes when to take you seriously.”

“Assume I’m always serious.”

“Never gonna happen. You ready to go?” He asks Clarke. Miller gives her a suspicious look.

“Where are you guys going?”

“Dinner,” Clarke grins, intentionally dodging Miller’s real question. He scowls at her, but it feels like friendship.

Bellamy either takes pity on him or he’s excited and wants to drop it into conversation as much as possible, because he goes, “Dinner _date._ ”

“I’m impressed. I didn’t think you were gonna get your act together this quickly.”

“Apparently, all I had to do was ask,” Bellamy says, smiling at his friend. Smiling at everyone. He’s generous with his smiles right now. “You can cover closing, right?”

“It’s almost like I work here or something.”

“Great. Then we should get going.” He smiles down at Clarke, all soft eyes and ridiculously punny t-shirt. There’s a tug at her heart as he laces his fingers through hers and she’s never been more grateful for happy accidents.


End file.
